I almost laughed. My wedding, and his old flame would be the one playing piano to warm up the room.

The planner added one more thing. "Mr. Gilbert picked the piece, too. He said Miss Simmons knows it well."

I asked, "Which piece?"

She gave me a name, and I went still for a long moment.

I'd heard that piece before. The night Orson got drunk, slumped against the couch, humming it low under his breath.

He'd said it was the most regretful melody he'd ever heard, back when he was young.

At the time I actually believed that his willingness to tell me about that regret meant I had become his present.

That night, when Orson came home, I was sitting in the living room waiting for him.

He shrugged off his coat. "Why aren't the lights on?"

I pushed the tablet across to him. "You're having Sheila play piano at the wedding?"

Orson barely glanced at it. "She's only helping out. She's won awards before. She's a better fit than hiring some outside musician."

I asked, "A better fit how?"

He looked up. "Silvia, can you not be so sensitive? A wedding is a public occasion for two families. It's not an outlet for your moods."

I nodded. "So at my own wedding, I don't get to decide the music, I don't get to decide the photos, and I don't get to decide who wears my veil."

Orson unfastened his cufflinks, his patience thinning. "I already explained the veil thing."

"You didn't explain. You just told me to accept it."

He was quiet for two seconds. "Sheila left in a hurry back then. I owe her a proper goodbye. All she wants now is a little dignity. You can't even allow her that?"

He owed her a goodbye. And me? I'd carried him through the two worst years the Gilbert family ever had.

When the board pushed him until two in the morning, I was the one in his office reworking the documents with him.

When his stomach hurt so badly his face went white, I was the one who drove three blocks to buy the medicine.

The first time his mother softened enough to let me through her door, that came from the two weeks I'd kept watch at the hospital.

Whose dignity did I owe?

That was when Sheila's call came in.

Orson glanced at the screen, picked up. "What is it?"

I could faintly hear crying on the other end.

"Orson, should I not have agreed to play? Will Miss Harding hate me for it?"

Orson pressed at his brow. "No. She's just tired."

Sheila spoke again. "Then could you come over for a bit? My old wrist injury is acting up. It hurts."

Orson picked up his car keys.

I asked, "Now?"

His movements stopped. "She has no family here."

"And what about me?"

Orson shot me a look. "Don't compare yourself to someone who's hurt."

When the door closed, the wind chime in the entryway gave a soft little ring.

I'd bought it in Old Harbor last year.

Orson said the sound was noisy, but I'd never been able to bring myself to take it down.

Tonight it rang very softly, like it was reminding me.

Some people don't fail to hear. They just don't want to.

Three days out from the wedding, Angela asked me to come fit the gowns.

When I arrived, Sheila was there too.

She wore a champagne-colored bridesmaid dress, turning in front of the mirror.

Angela smiled. "Sheila has such a lovely figure. Anything looks beautiful on her."

I pushed the door open, and the smile froze on my face.

Because that bridesmaid dress was my reception dress.

That day, Orson had rarely made time to come try on clothes with me.

He sat on the couch reading documents. I changed through seven dresses, and the only time he lifted his head was when I came out in that one.

He said, "This one's fine."

I'd thought that single glance meant, at the very least, he had really looked at me.

When Sheila saw me, she scrambled to undo the zipper. "Miss Harding, don't get the wrong idea. Auntie said no one was wearing this one yet, so she had me try it on to see how it looked."

Angela frowned. "Silvia, don't make that face. Sheila's helped out with so much. What's the harm in her trying on a dress?"

I looked at Orson. He sat on the couch, flipping through documents, not bothering to lift his head.

"If you don't like it, pick another one."

"That's my reception dress," I said.

Orson finally looked up. "There are a hundred dresses in that bridal studio. It has to be this one?"

I asked quietly, "Orson, in your eyes, am I always interchangeable?"

He closed the file. "Don't put it so harshly."

Sheila's eyes were red. "I'll just take it off. Miss Harding, don't fight with Orson over a dress."

Angela grabbed her arm at once. "Take off nothing. She's about to be Mrs. Gilbert. If she can't show even this much grace, how is she going to carry the family name later?"

Mrs. Gilbert sounded like an expensive title. But all at once it felt to me like a dress someone else had already worn and handed down.

Orson came over and gripped my shoulder. "Silvia, Mom isn't well. Don't argue with her. It's only a dress. I'll order you a more expensive one."

I looked at myself in the mirror, my face pale as if I wore no makeup at all. "It isn't a question of expensive."

He lowered his voice. "Then what is it? You wanted the title, I gave you a wedding. You wanted dignity, I'm letting the whole city know you married into the Gilbert family. What else is it you're missing?"

I said nothing for a long time. The thing I was missing, he would never understand.

That night, back home, I received the draft of the wedding vows.

The file came from the planner.

【Mr. Gilbert — Confirmed Vows】

I opened it. The first line read:

【Sheila, after all these years of going in circles, I finally have you standing here in the wind of Old Harbor.】

My fingertips froze. I scrolled down. The word "Sheila" had been struck through.

In the margin, a note: 【Change to Silvia. Keep the Old Harbor wind chimes.】

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the screen for a long while.

So even the vows had been edited, like an old gown returned and put on again.

Orson came out of the shower, saw my face, and walked over to take the tablet.

I didn't let go.

When he made out what was on the screen, his brow furrowed. "The planner sent the wrong version."

I asked, "Was the original written for her?"

He was silent. In that second, his silence was clearer than any answer.

A message from Sheila popped up.

【Orson, don't trouble yourself over the vows. I really do love that line about Old Harbor, but Miss Harding probably doesn't want any trace of me left in it.】

Orson reached out to shut off the screen.

I dodged his hand. "She knows?"

His tone went cold. "Silvia, reading other people's messages isn't good manners."

A laugh slipped out of me.

So my manners required that I not notice them turning my wedding into her unfinished regret.

I set the tablet back on the bed. "Let's call off the wedding."

Orson looked at me, then after a moment let out a soft laugh. "Here we go again."

He walked to the closet and took out his coat. "If you want me to coax you, pick another time. The rehearsal's tomorrow. Don't be late."

Before the door closed, he tossed out one last line. "Sheila's wrist hurts. I'm going to check on her."

That night, I didn't sleep. I copied every one of the wedding files.

On the day of the rehearsal, I was ten minutes late.

Orson stood at the end of the red carpet, his face cold.

Angela spoke first. "Silvia, the wedding is only two days away. You're still acting up like this?"

My mother came over and pulled me aside, whispering, "Stop making a scene. All these Gilbert relatives are watching."

I looked at her. "Mom, if it were you today, could you stand it too?"

She avoided my eyes. "What marriage doesn't come with swallowing something? Marrying well is worth more than anything."

So everyone thought I should be grateful for this humiliation.

Orson stepped down off the red carpet and clamped a hand around my wrist. "Rehearsal first."

I didn't move. "Why is Sheila sitting in the bride's entrance spot?"

Sheila stood up at once. "Miss Harding, the piano's over here. I didn't mean anything by it."

Orson said, "She'll play her piece and step down."

"Play what?"

No one answered. The sound tech hit the play button by mistake.

Out of the piano accompaniment came a recording of Sheila's voice.

"Orson, if I hadn't left back then, would we have gotten married at the old harbor?"

Then Orson's voice. "We would have."

The hall went quiet.

The color drained from Sheila's face in an instant. "That wasn't meant for the wedding. I don't know how it—"

Orson's head snapped toward the sound tech. "Turn it off."

I stood where I was. I couldn't even cry.

He came over to stand in front of me. "That was recorded years ago. It means nothing."